I'm listening to the sounds of summer
Sing outside of my window
But they sound more like the spoken word of a tragic poem
Than the pop songs that play on the radio
Things are different now.

We use to sit and melt in front of the television together
My fingertips dissolved right onto the couch
And our colors would somehow blend together
In a lovely soft yellow

But yellow is the color of the past
My days are now stained a dark red
And only interrupted by blacks and browns
You told me change is good but not
When we aren't talking about channels

As I stare at the static and think about before,
I still like to imagine that
If I took a knife to my skin
And etched your name into my flesh
The sorrows that come pouring out would be the color of the sun.

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